Bróðir
by sithmarauder
Summary: He cannot describe the rush that courses through his body when Norway looks at him levelly and says, "Do what you must." Iceland/Norway, implied Denmark/Norway.


**Title: ****Bróðir  
>Pairing(s): IcelandNorway, implied Denmark/Norway.**  
><strong>Disclaimer: Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not (and will never) belong to me.<br>Dedications: To Sparkstorm57, for her never-ending patience with me and for getting me started on this in the first place. I hope it lives up to your expectations!  
><strong>

Sequel to _Bror_, but can be read alone.  
>This was way darker than I had intended. -flails arms madly- Why can't everyone just be happy? Iceland, <em>seriously, why?<br>_At least I have some Nordic fluff planned for later that's not part of this particular arc... c:

-x-

Everything Iceland is or ever was had been a gift from Norway. From the first man to ever step foot on his shore, dubbing the tiny child he found _Snæland _(Snowland), to the permanent settlements that would later mark his shores and lands, Norway had played a crucial part to his development and his subsequent growth. Iceland himself had never pretended differently, though he would admit to himself, often in the company of Mr. Puffin, that he had never really given the word brother, _bróðir_, any real thought.

The DNA results, well, they changed just about everything, though in retrospect he should have seen it coming. The surge of annoyance he feels at _not_ have known... it's more of a blow to his pride than the other Nordics insisting on the title "onii-chan" - _bróðir_.

Iceland frowns, watching from the shoreline as Mr. Puffin flies away, everything silent apart from the roar of the waves as they hit the rocks he is sitting on, the spray hitting him in the face as the wind ruffles his hair, the salt from the water drying before he brushes it out with an idle hand. He's always found the ocean to be a peaceful place, but right now he is finding nothing of the equanimity he seeks – only a bleak sense of solitude that increases his frustration with every added second.

"_Ísland_."

Iceland glances up at his name, mouth creasing into a frown until he notices who's there.

His feelings regarding Norway have always been somewhat complicated. Most of the time it's strictly neutral – he firmly acknowledges all that Norway has done for him, acknowledges the times when the older Nordic would bring him out of the cold and take care of him, acknowledges the time he spent with the other Nordics like Sweden and Finland, back when he had been a small child amongst the much older nations. He acknowledges that and is grateful.

And yet... and yet there are times, strange times, when the magma and the heat in in his blood rears him, like he's boiling from the inside, his emotions directed _so directed so dark so foreign_ towards Norway and no other in strange fits of _emotion_ he cannot quite explain. Sometimes it's a soft thing, like when he walks through the door to see his brother sleeping on the couch after a long day, his face blank even in sleep, and other times it's a dark thing – an ugly feeling that coils within him like a particularly vicious snake.

He finds that he experiences these dark flashes more and more when Denmark is around.

He stares at Norway, his eyes guarded and cold but never flat – there's always a sharpness to them, a glint. The Scandinavian looks completely within his element, his hat and his clothes just loose enough that they blow nicely in the wind, not fighting the air currents, while still returning to sit nicely against his skin.

He can see his brother's connection to the land in instances like this – the timelessness the most mysterious of the Nordics possesses, like a misty aura, and if he looks really closely he thinks he can almost see dark shapes hovering behind him, like otherworldly guards – beings that lend his brother a sort of strength that often surprises many people. They do not expect it of him, and so Norway has already gained the upper hand.

It almost eases the disappointment of his not really being descended from a "Hidden Race" – a legendary tribe of natives.

"_Velkominn_," he tells Norway, not getting a drastic visible response but also not expecting one. He likes it better than a snarky comment, the kind that Norway often bestows upon the unsuspecting Danish country.

"_Velkominn_," Norway says back after a pause, and Iceland finds that he rather likes the sound of his language on his brother's tongue, even if his brother repeating the word _welcome_ doesn't make much sense in terms of context. Something sharp radiates through his body, and he angels towards the Norwegian without even thinking.

Norway looks at him for a few seconds more before inclining his head and turning around, making his way back to the house that stands some distance away – a modest home, not a mansion but not a shack, that Iceland knows his brother is quite fond of. Norway's meaning clear, Iceland turns to follow him, conscious of the way his eyes never leave the older Nordic's frame, even as the powerful sensation continues to build within him.

When he enters Norway's house, the elder Nordic is nowhere to be seen, but that mystery is solved seconds later when he appears from around the corner, as dispassionate-looking as ever.

"_Ísland,_" he says again, and Iceland's eyes instantly snap to him, his hands starting to shake as he _remembers_; remembers the taste of Norway and the feel of his skin, pliant and soft below Iceland's lips, as Iceland pushed him _unyielding_ against the wall, and before he can stop himself he has reached out and snagged Norway's wrist before his _brother_ can leave, narrowing his eyes as Norway turns back to look at him, all lacklustre blue eyes and stony expressions.

The question is there, Iceland knows Norway senses it, but he will not say anything – it is not of his nature, frustrating as it may be sometimes. Iceland shudders lightly then, bowing his head, his fingers growing tighter around Norway's wrist, his frame shaking as his body screams at him, _begging _him for the man in front of him.

He cannot describe the rush that courses through his body when Norway looks at him levelly and says, "Do what you must." He drags Norway into the adjoining room, his own, he notices, then it's lips on lips, hands tangled in hair, and Iceland is lost.

At first he isn't sure what to do – he has no experience, nothing beyond the idle talks he has had with Mr. Puffin wherein his animal friend would often revert to coarse language that Iceland would usually tune out. It's what he does; it's part of his nature, but he is also observant – he knows what his precious _bróðir _does with Denmark when he thinks Iceland does not _know_, and the rage that suddenly sparks within him at the thought fuels him on, rumbling within his chest like the most active volcano he possesses. He kisses Norway again, relishing in the way the other man tilts his head back soundlessly, baring his throat and giving Iceland the opening he needs. His hands move there first, stroking the pale flesh, followed by his lips as he bites and bites _hard_, ignoring the way Norway jerks slightly beneath him, the man's usually blank face losing its neutrality as his mouth thins and his hands jerk, but it doesn't deter Iceland. Instead, he moves his hands down from Norway's neck, tracing his collarbone as one hand slips under his brother's shirt, marvelling in the soft skin and _how long has Denmark had this? How long?_

Iceland raises his head at that, violet eyes swirling, passionate violet meeting emotionless blue. He knows that his brother could stop him at any moment – knows better than most that Norway, while enigmatic and reclusive, is still capable of being a force to reckon with.

To finally have Norway beneath him, skin shining with sweat as he turns his head to the side, breathing rapid, is all Iceland has ever wanted.

And then Iceland doesn't think anything coherently for a very long time.

-x-

He wakes to the light of the sun's rays as they trickle through the blinds on his window, splitting the light into bars that spill across his face. He opens his eyes tiredly, his body still exhausted, but he managed to push himself up, letting his head clear for a little bit before looking at the empty place on the bed beside him, where he had last seen Norway.

Down the hall he can hear some noises, with voices chattering and laughing and _is that Finland_?

Five minutes later finds Iceland pushing open the door to his room, tugging his brown jacket over the generic white shirt he had grabbed. He's greeted instantly with Finland's smiling face as the cheerful nation says something animatedly to Sweden, and Iceland finds he doesn't understand how he can keep denying his status as "wife" in their relationship; however, his attention is drawn from them instead to Norway, who has just emerged from the kitchen with a larger platter of food, Denmark hovering behind him as if it's a newborn child Norway is in possession of and he is the father.

The comparison sparks a dark feeling, but Iceland says nothing, instead sitting down beside Sweden and enjoying the man's relative silence.

"So, Iceland, how's staying with your _brother_?" Finland asks cheerfully, giving him a wink. "Have you started calling him that? You really should, you know."

Iceland glares at him. "I do not want to," he says simply, but the Fin is undeterred, insisting that it's "Only natural," and that he thinks Norway would like it if he did. It brings him back to that one conversation he had had with Mr. Puffin.

"_Speaking of history, if you examined yer ancestors, you're blood-bros with that really snarky guy!"_

_ "__Stop it. I would've preferred if I was a descendant of a legendary tribe of native people."_

_ "Ha, ha, ya say that, but you two look alike, ya know!"_

He almost didn't register the blood trickling down his hand or the glass that had embedded itself in his palm, not until he noticed the complete silence and the horrified expression on Finland's face, rivalled only by the surprise on Denmark's as he opens his mouth like a fish.

He feels sick.

"_Ya say that, but you two look alike, ya know!"_

He is aware of someone's chair scraping across the floor, and suddenly Norway is at his side, his hands steady as he turns Iceland's hand around in his own, and Iceland catches a hint of worry behind those blank eyes.

It's enough to make him freeze – freeze long enough for Norway to carefully remove the glass while Denmark hovers over him, Finland asking if he's okay while Sweden frowns in confusion, like he's trying to figure out Iceland's motive.

When Norway's hand brushes the inside of his wrist Iceland stands quickly, ignoring the blood that flows from a gash in his palm as well as the other small cuts.

"_Ísland_," Norway begins, but before he can finish Iceland is turning away from them, walking towards the door. He is aware of Finland calling after him, his mother hen instincts almost as overbearing as Denmark's at times, and he turns back once, his eyes meeting Norway's even as Denmark comes up behind the blue-eyed Nordic, his expression worried even as he rests a hand on Norway's hip, a reflex gesture that the Norwegian accepts, even returning it with an unconscious brush of his hand over Denmark's.

Iceland stares at them all for a few more seconds, his eyes sharp. Even Finland has quieted down, instead watching him quietly, clearly feeling helpless in the matter – like he should be doing something that he can't. So instead of merely continuing on he pauses, hand resting against the doorframe and staining it red with blood before he reaches one hand out in a wave, his eyes focused completely on Norway.

_"Bróðir."_

And he is gone.


End file.
